


Muscle Memory

by merulanoir



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Emhyr doesn't emotion, Gift Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-01 19:49:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16771726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir
Summary: His grip on the sword hilt comes from his muscles and bones, his heart knows Ciri is important, but who is the man with black hair and eyes that cut through him?





	Muscle Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dordean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/gifts).



> Happy birthday to [Dor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean)! You're an amazing human bean and a dear friend!
> 
> Beta by [Kael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale/pseuds/kaeltale). <3

The first thing he was aware of was the headache. It was unlike any he had ever experienced; an odd, blunt beat in the deepest part of his brain. For a second, it faded away, only to come back like a gradually intensifying light. He focused on the pulse, the coming and going of the pain, until sleep took him again.

The next time he regained consciousness, he managed to pry open his eyelids. It felt like he had been asleep for _weeks._ He looked around and took in the heavy, drawn curtains, plush carpet, and what looked like a portrait of an wealthy family. The whole room screamed ‘royalty’ to him. His head was feeling hazy, as if the world was still a few steps removed from him. Then his eyes found the young woman, asleep at the foot of the bed. She was snoring softly, despite clearly being only in light sleep. She had very pale hair and a big scar on her left cheek.

He sat up, trying to avoid groaning as his muscles protest. How long had he been out of it?

The movement woke the woman, who scrambled up and took a few seconds to reorient herself. Even in the dark, he could tell her eyes were very green. She had dark shadows under them.

“Oh! You’re finally awake!” she gasped. She circled the bed and hugged him tight. The contact stirred something inside his head, but it was gone when he tried to grasp it.

“How are you feeling?”

He thought about it for a while. His head was feeling weird, but the pain was mostly gone by now. Only the haze remained.

“Alright,” he said slowly. “Where am I?”

“In my chambers.” She smiled. “They wanted to put you into the hospital wing, but I refused.”

He blinked at her, and finally the confusion started to set in. He reached inside his mind, and there was… nothing.

“But… Where?” he asked. The woman frowned.

“In Vizima. You were visiting my father about a contract and then at the banquet there was an assassination attempt on him. You jumped in front of a powerful blast of magic.”

He could suddenly taste something metallic, which made his tongue sting. The woman was watching him very closely.

“Geralt, do you remember that?”

And there it was again, that same emptiness inside his head. He looked down, and now there was something hot crawling up his throat; a feeling that felt utterly alien to him. He drew in a breath, and then another, but still there was only an echoing, empty nothing.

He looked up, then.

The woman had her hand in front of his mouth. She was looking at him like he was broken.

“You don’t remember.”

He nodded. Then he shook his head. He knew there should have been something, but he felt like an empty house, where someone had robbed the furniture and killed the residents before disappearing into the night.

“I don’t remember anything.”

***

“Nothing?”

“That is _literally_ what I just said.”

“There is no need to get agitated.”

“The man who raised me has forgotten who I am! Who he himself is! And you dare call it nothing-”

“Cirilla,” the man cut in with a stern voice. “That is not helping.” His sharp eyes flicked over to him and then back to the woman, Cirilla. “He is in no danger.”

Cirilla seemed to deflate under his gaze. Her shoulders sagged and she blew out a sigh before rubbing her eyes.

“What will we do?”

They had told him his name was Geralt. For the time being, he decided to believe that much. Cirilla continued thinking aloud, and the man occasionally interjected with pointed words. After a dressing debacle, which had left a servant in tears and glaring at Geralt, Cirilla had dragged him into yet another fine room. A cluster of servants hovered at the edges, and the center was taken over by a man who drew Geralt’s eye immediately; he was a threat, or had been, and not being able to tell which set Geralt’s teeth on edge.

While listening to them talk about him, he suddenly felt a stab of irritation at being ignored.

“Hey, I can still hear you. I may have lost my memories, but I’m not stupid,” he said in a low voice.

Cirilla whisked her head around and blushed. “I’m sorry,” she said and bit her lip.

The man didn’t speak. He was looking at Geralt like he had a lot of things he wanted to say.

Cirilla came to him and brushed her hand against his arm. Geralt suddenly knew, deep in his bones, that they had known each other very well. She didn’t make him recoil like the attendant who had tried to dress him earlier.

Cirilla swallowed. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I’m just trying to understand what we need to do.”

“You could start by telling me who you are,” Geralt said gently. He didn’t want to upset Cirilla, but she looked like he had slapped her.

“Yes, of course,” she said quickly as she looked away. She glanced at the man. “Tell them to leave,” she added, nodding towards the servants. The man waved his hand, and the stewards scurried away with such haste it told Geralt this here was someone with a lot of power. The observation made him feel apprehensive and curious.

Cirilla gestured towards the chairs in front of the hearth, and they sat down, the man included. There was a short silence, and then Cirilla spoke again.

“You truly remember nothing at all?”

Geralt shook his head. He was still feeling like the man who had lived there had been wiped away. It didn’t hurt, but it was unsettling.

“Who am I?” he asked.

To his surprise, the man let out a hollow laughter.

“There is a question I myself would have liked an answer to,” he remarked, earning an admonishing scowl from Cirilla. She then turned her bright eyes to Geralt.

“Your name is Geralt of Rivia. You’re a witcher.”

“A witcher?”

She sighed, worrying her lip and looking indecisive. The man got back up and went to a dresser.

“Witchers are mutated humans who were created to fight monsters,” he explained as he rummaged through a drawer. “You hail from the fortress of Kaer Morhen, deep in the Northern mountains.” He retrieved something and joined them by the fire. He handed Geralt a small mirror before sitting back down.

When Geralt peered into it, he felt something twist inside his gut. He slowly took in his face; his skin was very pale, his beard and hair eerily white. He had some scars, the most prominent one bisecting his left eye, and his eyes were golden yellow, with slit pupils. He looked nothing like anyone he’d yet seen.

“Mutated, huh?” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Cirilla said. “My name is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, but you have always called me Ciri. I’m your daughter by the law of surprise.”

The words echoed through Geralt’s mind, and at their wake came the first feeling he could really call his own. He felt a sweeping wave of sorrow for having lost her; he and Ciri had clearly shared a whole life, and now he couldn’t recall a second it.

“The law of surprise?” he asked to focus on something else.

The man leaned forward, the heavy golden chain he wore around his neck clinking softly. His brown eyes were inquisitive. When he spoke, Geralt could tell he was choosing his words with great care.

“Many years ago, you helped me. I was cursed. You, together with a druid, ensured I could marry the princess of Cintra, who later became gave birth to Cirilla. Before I even knew I was to have an heir, you invoked an old law of the witchers, asking as your reward the thing I did not yet know I had.”

“Ciri,” Geralt said, the realization dawning on him.

“Yes.” The man glanced at Ciri and a shadow of a smile passed over his severe features. “After that, there have been years’ worth of struggles to let us arrive at this point in time. You will be allowed access to the imperial library, and no doubt Cirilla will be happy to tell you more.”

Geralt felt a small piece settle into place inside himself. He still had no memories, but his body had remembered something. Ciri was family; she was someone he had trusted. He turned to look at her and smiled.

He saw her eyes fill with tears before she stood up and walked to the window. Her shoulders were held tight like a bowstring as she looked into the darkening evening.

Geralt felt a visceral need to go to her, then. He needed to comfort her, to tell her it was alright. Before he could act on it, the man stood up and joined her. His hand landed on her shoulder, and Geralt saw Ciri turn her tear-filled eyes to the man she had called her father earlier.

“Now is your time to be strong,” the man said very quietly.

Ciri nodded. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Geralt could see her pull herself together, and what had been hurting her so badly was discarded for the time being. When she opened her eyes, they were once again full of stubborn fire.

“I’ll tell you everything,” she said to Geralt. “And I’ll bring your friends here, so they can fill in the bits I don’t know.”

Geralt nodded, because what else could he do? He knew he’d do anything to make Ciri smile again.

Ciri considered him for a while and then she nodded. “Alright. I know it’s late, but how about we have dinner and start to go over things?” she asked him.

Geralt consented with another nod. He was liking her blunt way of speaking. She was nothing like the man standing next her, in any sense that Geralt could read. The man was a locked door; all tense shoulders and masked feelings, which bled through just enough to tell Geralt that they existed. His eyes met the man’s, and something skittered across Geralt’s mind; a brush of an intention, but without a definite shape.

Ciri smiled at him, and Geralt pulled his mind together. “I’ll go get a few books that will help. I’ll be back soon,” she said, nodded to her father, and disappeared in a flash of green and white light.

Geralt blinked several times, but she was gone. Surprise child, alright.

When he turned his eyes to the man, he found himself once again under intense scrutiny. It wasn’t rude, but it made him feel like he was doing something wrong.

“What?” he asked defensively.

The man continued looking at him, but a ripple of emotion that Geralt was tempted to call amusement passed over his face.

“It’s oddly comforting to see your personality has not changed at all,” he finally said. “You’re still concerned for Cirilla’s well-being, as well as utterly insolent.”

“Insolent?” Geralt asked, wrinkling his nose at the choice of word.

The man seemed to straighten up a little, which was impressive considering his stiff posture. His gaze pierced Geralt.

“I am, for the time being, the emperor of Nilfgaard,” he said calmly. “And you have always been the sole person to never acknowledge what that means.”

All of a sudden, Geralt felt like he could really see the man standing before him. His hair was black and it had strands of silver at the temples. His face was smooth-shaven and handsome, but it was his eyes that drew Geralt’s gaze time and again. They were expressive in a very subtle way. Geralt couldn’t understand how he could discern so much from only a few details, but he took it all in.

“Sorry about that,” he shrugged. “I don’t have any frame of reference at the moment, so it’s unlikely to change.”

The emperor pursed his lips slightly. It was not disappointment, more like a reaction to something he had been expecting.

“How can you tell you care for Cirilla?” he suddenly asked. “Even before she told you who she was, you were watching her closely, as if readying to protect her.”

Geralt shook his head. “No idea. I just… Deep down I know she’s important.”

“That she is,” the man said quietly, more to himself than to Geralt. Then his eyes focused again and he started towards the door.

“I’ll leave you to talk with Cirilla. She will be able to provide you with the essential facts, and as I said, you’ll be allowed to use the imperial library as you see fit.”

Geralt nodded, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he had apparently lived a whole life he no longer could claim as his own.

“She said something about my friends?” he asked.

The emperor stopped and considered him. “You have lived for well over a hundred years. You have a close circle of people who hold you dear.”

Geralt looked down at that. How could he face his friends and tell them he didn’t know who they were?

Then he heard the door open.

“Hey,” he said, and the man stopped. “Who are you? What’s your name?”

Those sharp eyes flashed at him, and two quick blinks betrayed surprise and a measure of distress. The man who had claimed to be an emperor considered him for a second before cracking a wry smile.

“Emhyr var Emreis. But you knew me first by the name Duny.”

With that, the man left Geralt alone in the room.

***

Geralt accepted the sword Ciri handed him. The handle was covered in soft leather, and some unconscious part of him knew how to grip it. He gave the blade a spin, letting his body tell him what to do. The courtyard opened upwards into clear blue sky, and Geralt had a fleeting thought of being trapped in a beautiful labyrinth.

They had been talking until three in the morning, and he was feeling all the information whirl around his mind even after sleeping in. It had put him off-balance, but the sentiment started to wane as Geralt adjusted his grip. Only when he saw Ciri grin at him did he realize he had instinctively assumed a stance; his feet had planted themselves solidly on the dusty ground, and his body was facing Ciri, shoulders relaxed but full of energy to be expended.

“There’s something left, it seems,” Ciri said as she mirrored him. “It’s exactly like you used to train me.”

She started slowly, and Geralt allowed his mind to slip into a silent, quiet place he hadn’t known he had access to. It wasn’t anything he did consciously, just a way of being that involved moving quickly; it was like someone had written it into his muscles and bones, because it came easy like breathing to him. It was also comforting, much like realizing he cared for Ciri.

Geralt became aware of someone watching them after ten minutes, but he didn’t let it disturb the first tranquil moment he was being treated to since waking up in the unfamiliar bed. Even after relearning his life’s story, he kept feeling like a stranger to himself.

As he and Ciri picked up speed, he felt his mouth quirk up in a smile. He saw her grin, and it tugged at his heart.

Suddenly Ciri vanished again in a flash of light, just as he was going to strike at her. Geralt had a fraction of a second to sense his surroundings, and a nascent whisper of a warning alerted him to whirl left. He turned and unconsciously threw out his free hand in a gesture his mind didn’t recognize. Emerald green light flashed as Ciri blinked back into the present moment and struck at him, and at the exact same time an orange shield enveloped Geralt. Sparks flew, and Ciri staggered back with a breathy laugh.

“I knew it!” she cried.

Geralt was panting as he let his sword tip lower. The last glimmer of the magical shield faded away as he stared at Ciri. The woman was smiling so brightly it could have outshone the sun that was beating them down.

“Witchers have some magic,” she said when she caught her breath. “Your body remembered everything else about fighting, so I took a small risk to test whether it remembered the signs, too.”

“Signs?” Geralt asked. A hesitant smile pulled his lips upward.

“There are five of them. The one you used was _Quen_ , a shield.”

“Can you show me the rest of them?” Geralt asked when they sat down in the shadows.

Ciri sighed. “My magic comes from my blood. Yours is the products of the mutations. So, no.”

“It’s alright,” Geralt told her. After a moment’s hesitation he stroked her hair. Something about the gesture was familiar, and it made Ciri swallow thickly before smiling.

“I could try to find Eskel or Lambert. They’re your brothers from Kaer Morhen. They could tell you a lot about your past, too,” Ciri said after a short silence.

Geralt looked down. “I don’t know if I want to meet anyone yet, to be honest. I feel like I’m letting everyone down because I don’t remember anything.”

To his surprise, Ciri chuckled as she kicked up some dust and crossed her ankles. “Your personality hasn’t changed one bit,” she said when he looked at her in question. “You’re always worried about everyone else before considering yourself.”

“Emhyr said the same thing about my personality,” Geralt huffed. “Only I think he was referring to me being insolent and annoying.”

Ciri let out a delighted laugh. “That’s you, alright. I’ve never seen anyone else put him in such a temper. Just before the explosion-” She cut off abruptly and looked away.

Geralt reached for her hand and squeezed it carefully. “It’s okay. I’d like to hear that.”

Ciri gave him a crooked smile. “We were at a banquet, discussing a contract on a large infestation of alghouls. They’re a kind of necrophage with nasty spikes. You kept telling my father that he’s an idiot because he would not hire two witchers for the job, and he looked as though he would like nothing better than to send you to the dungeons.”

“Why didn’t he?” Geralt asked. He had not registered an ounce of fear in himself when he had met Emhyr var Emreis, but he could tell the emperor had not lied when he had said that he was basically the most powerful man in the world.

“Because you’re you,” Ciri said, shrugging as she took a sip of the water the servants had brought them. “You’ve always been equals in some unfathomable way. He respects you, even if he’d never admit it.”

“And right as I insulted this hideously powerful man, someone tried to blast him with magic?” Geralt asked. He couldn’t remember anything, but his body did: his muscles stiffened up in reaction to a pain his mind had blocked out.

“Yes. A man who claimed to hail from Kovir ran at my father and you just… jumped between them. I’ve seen you fight several times, and it was like you didn’t even think about it,” Ciri said in a low and confused voice.

Geralt didn’t answer. He could still feel someone watching them, and when he finally lifted his gaze he saw the emperor was leaning on a balustrade above them. Their eyes met for a few seconds, and then Emhyr nodded at him and left.

***

In the evening, Geralt was shuffling through some books Ciri had left him with. They were about the history of the Nilfgaardian empire and the Northern Wars, and Geralt was finding them interesting. Reading them pulled several facts into his focus, but he could tell they were written by the winner of the conflict. His common sense told him there was much that he would need to uncover if he ever wanted to understand what had truly come to pass.

A knock on the door drew his focus away from the tomes. When he opened the door, he was surprised to find the emperor on the other side, wearing the customary dark coat and the golden chain of his office. He looked maybe a touch more relaxed than on their earlier meeting.

Geralt didn’t know what the etiquette called for in an instance like this, so he just opened the door wider and nodded at the man in greeting. Emhyr var Emreis entered the room Geralt had been assigned, and took in the scattered books and scrolls with a lifted eyebrow.

“You’ve been busy.”

“I read fast,” Geralt said. He had been surprised to discover it was easy for him to absorb information from the dusty books. The facts and events just seemed to stick in his mind and arrange themselves with little effort.

“So it would seem.”

Emhyr stared at Geralt for a moment longer and then looked away again. “I trust you’re finding the accommodations to your liking,” he said. For some reason, Geralt got the impression the emperor was trying to find something to occupy the silence with.

“It’s okay. Not like I have anything to compare them with,” he answered honestly.

Emhyr looked at him, but didn’t answer. Geralt wondered how to broach the topic that had been bothering him ever since Ciri had told him about what his life had been like.

“You have questions,” the emperor said after a moment. He sat down on the sofa by the fireplace, and suddenly Geralt started wondering why he had come. Didn’t the emperor of such a vast realm have better things to do than talk with a useless headcase?

“Yeah, but I could always ask Ciri. Or that guy you asked to shadow me,” Geralt answered dryly. When Emhyr didn’t react in any way, Geralt concluded the guy had known the spy would be discovered soon enough.

“Yes, I could leave you to content yourself with them,” Emhyr finally said as his eyes found Geralt’s. The witcher sensed there was more to the sentence, so he just waited, staring at his companion.

“But eventually you would come to have questions only I can offer satisfying answers to,” Emhyr finally added. Suddenly he looked like he was regretting coming.

Geralt cleared his throat, trying to discern what he needed to know the most. Before he could attach any thoughts to what he was doing, he walked over to the sofa and sat down next to Emhyr. The emperor’s eyebrows crept up, but he didn’t say anything. Geralt got the impression he had won a point by his action, and now Emhyr was gearing up for the next round.

It made him uncomfortable in an unnameable way. He didn’t want to play any games with Emhyr.

“Did I know you before Pavetta’s birthday feast?” Geralt finally asked.

Emhyr shook his head. “No. You had been hired by queen Calanthe to ensure the princess would end up married to the rightful suitor.”

“So why did I help you? Ciri told me you had been cursed to appear as a monster,” Geralt continued. He didn’t try to soften his words, but Emhyr didn’t seem offended by them. If anything, his shoulders relaxed a fraction.

“You never told me,” Emhyr said after a short silence. “I only know that you and the druid Mousesack helped me when the rest of the guests chose to attack me, and Pavetta’s powers got out of control. After she regained her senses, you listened to her and took my side.”

Geralt nodded, looking down. The next part was much harder.

By now Geralt had gathered his senses were much sharper than a normal human’s. He heard and smelled a lot more accurately, but he also saw more; his mind processed things in a whirlwind, and it did its best to provide him with useful facts in any situation.

At the moment, Geralt could smell a very faint whiff of something that his gut told him was discomfort coming from Emhyr. Geralt understood the man knew what he was going to ask next.

“Ciri told me about the Ithlinne prophecy.”

Emhyr’s shoulders crept back up. It was such a small movement a normal human could have missed it, but Geralt saw it clear as day. There was a hint of something else, too. He would’ve liked to call it reluctance, or maybe even shame.

Emhyr looked at him, then. His normally sharp eyes were now cutting like jagged glass.

“We’ve had this discussion in the past.”

Geralt felt his brain catalogue the nuances, and he knew Emhyr was trying to avoid slipping into emotion. When that would fail, he would resort to anger. His jaw was stiff with it.

“You need to stop thinking about me as I was before, then,” Geralt said quietly. He hadn’t meant to say it like that, but it was true. He was Geralt of Rivia, and at the same time he was not. He knew the court mages were working on trying to find a cure, but as long as his mind remained an empty, echoing hall he needed to construct some kind of a self to cling onto.

Emhyr drew in a breath and looked away. For the first time he looked like his facade cracked and the human behind the multitude of layers was visible.

“I committed a horrible mistake,” Emhyr finally said in a perfectly flat tone. “I believed the sorcerer Vilgefortz, and it almost ruined everything.”

Geralt kept watching Emhyr closely. He knew he had probably breached etiquette by sitting down next to him, but now it seemed like a sensible decision. He could see every minute shift in Emhyr’s face.

There was such deep shame that Geralt couldn’t hope to gauge its depths. Grief and loneliness were mixed in equal measures.

“Near the end, I felt with growing certainty that my judgement had been gravely misguided, but until I found Cirilla at Stygga Castle I simply did not have the courage to turn the tide.”

Geralt swallowed. “She said she had a memory of you.”

Emhyr looked at the fire. “She told me.” His eyes were distant and unfocused. “She finally came back to me six years ago, after you defeated the Wild Hunt, and I’ve spent every moment trying to make amends.”

Geralt looked into the flames, too. He kept feeling like there was something he was missing, but it eluded him. It was a feeling, not a thought, but he couldn’t grasp it; he only knew it grew stronger when he looked at Emhyr. His chest tightened with it.

“Why did I agree to help you find Ciri after all that?” he asked after a long pause.

Emhyr turned to look at him, and there was an expression not unlike a grimace on his face.

“You did not. You wanted to make sure she was safe, and only agreed on using my resources to do so.”

Geralt knew Emhyr was speaking the truth. It sat heavy inside his head, just like his sword had felt in his hand earlier today. It was another feeling that resonated with some deep part of his persona, something the magic had not managed to erase.

“But Ciri has forgiven you,” Geralt finally said. She had said as much today; after recounting the sordid facts she had been silent for a long while and then looked Geralt straight in the eye.

“ _I don’t want to understand him, but I do. I have that same urge to save the world.”_

Emhyr didn’t react. He kept staring into the flames.

Geralt watched him; there was shame in his posture, but also a heavy note of loneliness. However well Emhyr concealed it from ordinary humans, he had no hope of fooling Geralt.

Geralt suddenly felt certain he’d had that same thought earlier, and it was the reason the conclusion came so easily to him now.

Geralt reached over and laid his hand on Emhyr’s shoulder. The man jumped in alarm when he made contact. His eyes locked with Geralt’s, disbelieving, angry, and still sad.

Geralt couldn’t find any words. He let his hand rest on Emhyr’s shoulder for a few seconds, and then the emperor stood up and shook the hand away. When the door closed with a clear snap Geralt let the breath go out of him. His heart was beating slightly faster than what he had come to take as usual.

***

“I have been informed that you enjoyed playing Gwent.”

Geralt cast a curious eye over Emhyr. The man had been avoiding him for several days, but now that Ciri was busy with her imperial duties, it was apparent that Emhyr was starting to feel like he needed to keep an eye on Geralt.

“You tell me,” Geralt said.

Emhyr looked like he would have loved to roll his eyes, and the knowledge sent a stab of satisfaction through Geralt.

“I can leave you to Mererid’s company,” Emhyr said, lifting an eyebrow.

Geralt recoiled. “Please don’t. The man hates me for some reason.”

Emhyr smiled dryly. “You made a fool of him when you first met. His memory is very good.”

Geralt rubbed his neck. He was sure he’d had a good reason back then, but without the context he was left feeling like a bit of an ass.

“I’ll take your word for it,” he said instead of embarrassing himself more. “What’s Gwent?”

“A card game that has become very popular throughout the realm in the past few years,” Emhyr said as he sat down. He deposited a wooden box on the table and opened it. “There are four factions you can choose from, each of them with unique perks and characters.”

Geralt reached for the box. It contained four thick decks of cards, all of them with a different theme. He picked one up at random and started to shuffle through it.

“Monsters?” he asked after a while.

Emhyr made a face. “A plebeian choice.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and picked up another deck.

“Seriously? They made a Nilfgaardian deck?”

Emhyr leaned back and considered him. “The four factions are meant to represent the balance of power on the Continent. It’s supposedly a strategic tool as well as a pastime.”

Geralt went through the cards and chuckled. “Don’t tell me you play this.”

Emhyr shrugged. “Why not? It’s only fitting.”

After some consideration Geralt ended up picking the Northern Realms deck because it seemed like a safe choice. They went over the rules and after one practice game Geralt felt his brain pick up the slack.

They shuffled the decks after every game to switch out some of the cards, and Geralt found himself getting immersed into the game. Emhyr was a wickedly clever opponent, but after three embarrassing defeats Geralt started to catch up. The evening fell over them as they played, and Geralt felt a calm sort of contentment wash over him. A residual memory of times past made itself known on a physical level; he didn’t recall the actual events, but he could tell he had spent several nights like this in the past. Maybe not with Emhyr, but with his friends. For now, he was happy to play with his current company.

They were on their last game for the evening when it all went to hell.

Geralt should have expected it, really; he had gone through the decks during the games and seen there were several people who tugged at some distant parts of his brain. The maker of the decks had clearly made sure to include every person of interest in their respective factions.

Geralt drew a random card, and was left staring at his own face. It was not a very well-drawn picture, but his hair and eyes were impossible to mistake for anyone else.

He slowly took in the text and the hit points. A dull sort of realization washed over him as he understood it was a very good card to draw at this point of a game.

_"If that's what it takes to save the world, it's better to let that world die."_

He let the card fall from his hand as he stood up and walked away from the table. He came to a stop at the large window that offered a beautiful view over the city. He stayed there, listening to Emhyr’s calm breaths and looking at the twinkling lights. He felt trapped behind that glass; the rest of the world was out there, and he was no longer a part of it. He wanted to reach out.

“It didn’t make any difference, didn’t it?” Geralt finally asked. “I was good, but not good enough. Ciri told me all my friends died at Stygga.”

He heard Emhyr get up and walk to him. He came to a stop behind Geralt, and then a heavy hand landed on Geralt’s shoulder.

“You’ve saved her more times than I can rightly count,” Emhyr said quietly. “From me, from the Wild Hunt, and from herself.”

Geralt turned around, and Emhyr’s hand fell away. Suddenly he was feeling like he was slowly boiling over with something that lacked name and form.

“I let her down,” Geralt said. “I can’t remember anything. It’s hurting her.”

Emhyr frowned like he was having trouble following Geralt’s chaotic thoughts, and it made Geralt feel even angrier.

“I’m a sad excuse of a guardian,” Geralt spat out. He made to turn away again, but Emhyr grabbed him by arms. His grip was viciously hard, and when Geralt met his eyes, his heart full of fury and disappointment, he saw only disbelief.

“You are an idiot,” Emhyr enunciated with great care. Geralt tried to pull away, but the man didn’t let him go.

“You have devoted several years to the sole purpose of ensuring Cirilla’s safety and happiness. She has never had to doubt your dedication. Now is her turn to find a way to help you. You must allow her that growth.”

Geralt felt the anger leak out as he stood in stunned silence. Emhyr glared at him, and his iron grip was the sole anchor Geralt had as he felt his mind trying to fight what he was hearing.

“You lack your memories, but your essence is the same it has always been. You need to trust in her,” Emhyr said with the same muted anger that seemed to be directed to something else entirely. Geralt realized he was defending his daughter in a way Geralt himself had probably done in the past; without a single doubt she would succeed, and livid at the thought that someone would dare doubt her.

Geralt let the tension out in a long sigh. The grip on his arms loosened, but Emhyr didn’t let him go. When Geralt finally managed to meet Emhyr’s eyes, they were framed by furrowed brows. Emhyr was looking at Geralt like he was just now grasping who was standing there. The hands holding on to Geralt were warm, and while the moment of aggression had passed, Geralt still felt a physical tug in the contact.

Geralt felt a moment of vertigo as he kept staring at Emhyr. There was something he couldn’t reach, as though it were behind a veil that was just thick enough to cover the essential details. He could feel the heat that was radiating from Emhyr, and still the man wasn’t pulling away.

When Geralt reached over the separating distance and let his hand fall against Emhyr’s chest, something seemed to slot into place, just like when he had gripped a sword for the first time after the accident. Emhyr recoiled at the contact, but didn’t pull away.

Geralt had no clue what drew him in, but he took a step closer. His chest pressed against Emhyr’s, and it was like following a fire through the empty dark that was his mind. Emhyr let out a breath as they made contact. Geralt had an inch or so on Emhyr, and the emperor was looking up at him like his brilliant puzzle box of a mind had been temporarily rendered obsolete. Geralt wasn’t sure how long they stood there; his focus was lost in the sudden synchronization of their breaths.

Then Emhyr pulled back. His face twisted into grimace that he tried to hide as he turned around and left the room. Geralt let him go, not attempting to follow. He wanted to, but by now he could tell Emhyr would not appreciate it. Watching him go made worry coil inside Geralt, another deep sensation of having felt just like this in the past.

***

Two weeks passed.

Geralt trained with Ciri as often as her duties would permit. The rest of the time he found himself in the company of the imperial guard, who were apparently thrilled to cross swords with a witcher. They were mostly young men with excellent backgrounds in both armed and unarmed combat, and Geralt found their company agreeable enough. It provided him with something to do with his time.

It bothered him that everyone seemed to know more about his past than he did. Rumors of the accident had been leaked, but the people seemed to have a hard time believing the legendary White Wolf had lost his memories. Even the use of his nickname had left Geralt feeling uneasy; it was like claiming the credit for something he hadn’t done.

He kept perusing the imperial library, trying to remind his mind of the things his body seemed to remember. Fighting was easy, but trying to understand human interactions was a different case altogether; he could read people, but only rarely did they appreciate him pointing out their true intentions.

By the end of the second week Geralt was ready to break something. Training didn’t manage to expel his energy, and he was feeling restless. When Ciri asked whether he would like to accompany Emhyr and herself on an excursion to a nearby town, Geralt agreed perhaps a bit too eagerly.

It dawned on him that it was an official imperial excursion only when he was provided with a custom-made set of armor and swords, and told to ride alongside the crown princess. He kept his mouth shut. The weight of the twin swords felt familiar against his back as he rode out from the palace after Ciri on a brisk autumn morning.

The purpose of the trip didn’t become clear to Geralt immediately. They visited a meadery, a mint, and an orphanage; in each of the places Emhyr and Ciri dismounted and walked around, exchanging words with the people, and then they continued their trip. By the time they had left the orphanage, Geralt decided it didn’t really matter what the hell they were doing; people were apparently happy to see them, and Ciri seemed to be having a good time.

Evening was creeping on them when they finally set out back towards the royal palace. Geralt kept his distance from Ciri and Emhyr, who were engrossed in a debate over something to do with the local schools. Geralt let his thoughts drift as he rode, enjoying the cool evening breeze and the familiar rocking motions of a horse underneath him.

As they passed a small cluster of houses right on the outskirts of Vizima, Geralt smelled a whiff of something acrid. It registered in his brain and was gone the next second when his body moved without any conscious thought. He kicked his feet free of the stirrups, used his horse as a base to jump several feet into the air, and knocked Ciri out of her saddle.

She made a muffled grunt as they hit the ground. Her eyes were alarmed, but Geralt only saw them in passing. He was already back on his feet, leaping over Ciri’s spooked horse, and then he and Emhyr were flying through the air as an explosion tore their surroundings into roaring smoke and flame.

Geralt took the brunt of the fall by his arms and narrowly avoided landing on Emhyr with his full weight. He felt a sharp twinge in his elbows, and they gave out under him immediately after.

The air was full of black smoke. Geralt heard Ciri shouting his name, and he allowed himself to feel relieved. She was safe.

When Geralt turned his head, he realized he was lying on top of Emhyr. The man was staring at him like he had hardly noticed the explosion. His eyes were focused on Geralt, and for a split second Geralt felt a wild urge to lean closer.

***

“You fractured both of your ulna,” Emhyr said by way of greeting as he walked into Geralt’s chambers without bothering to knock. He had not changed out of his traveling garb, and the smell of smoke and damp earth clung to him.

“Thanks, I noticed,” Geralt muttered. His forearms were hurting like a bitch, despite the medicinal herbs the imperial healer had given him. He was suspecting the healer didn’t know a thing about a witcher’s metabolism or their ability to process chemicals; not that Geralt knew much more, but he could tell the simple solution he had been provided with was not enough.

“You jumped into air to save Ciri,” Emhyr continued as he paced the room and avoided looking at Geralt. His hair was in disarray. “She would have been hit by the blast, had you not reacted.”

“Yes, I _know_ ,” Geralt growled. He had played the events over a hundred times in his head already. He was still getting shivers when he imagined what could have come to pass. “Whose idea was that anyway; riding out on horseback?”

“And then you knocked me off my horse,” Emhyr continued, ignoring Geralt.

“Are we just stating the obvious now?” Geralt asked. He was tired and hurting, and Emhyr had been looking at him like he was some greater variety of moronic. On top of being annoying, it twisted something deep into a painful knot, as if Geralt should have known better.

“Why?” Emhyr asked, finally abandoning the calm demeanor and allowing his tone to grow aggravated as he stalked closer like an angry beast. “You saved me from the magical blast, and today you reacted instinctively to save me alongside with Cirilla. _Why?_ ” His light brown eyes were wide with an emotion Geralt couldn’t recall seeing earlier.

In a few seconds Geralt took in the slight flush on Emhyr’s cheekbones, his angry eyes, the disheveled black hair, and the way his mouth stretched into a snarl. What followed was a sucker punch delivered straight into his brain, and a torrent of feeling bursting free from behind a barrier he hadn’t been aware of.

Geralt grabbed Emhyr by the front of his dirty garb and dragged him closer before kissing him. It was harsh and primal, and for a while Emhyr went slack with surprise.

Then there were strong fingers twisting into Geralt’s hair, and gripping so hard that he groaned into Emhyr’s mouth. Emhyr bit his lip and thrust his tongue into his mouth, and Geralt felt his knees go weak at the sensation. No matter how many decades worth of memories he had lost, he was absolutely certain this was something he was experiencing for the first time; there was such raw passion in the kiss it must have been a first of some sort.

Emhyr kissed him possessively and with more than a hint of desperation, and Geralt let himself be swept up in it. His hands came up to cup Emhyr’s cheeks, with blunt nails pressing softly into the sooty skin.

It felt like years before they came up for air. Geralt was panting, and Emhyr looked wrecked in every sense of the word. His eyes, that normally held a shield of passivity in front of them, were now almost naked with disbelieving hope.

“Why do I feel like this?” Geralt asked him in a hoarse voice. “Why do I keep feeling like I need to get close to you?”

Emhyr closed his eyes. He drew in a breath, and Geralt feared there would be more deflection; more lies to cover up whatever it was that was making him gravitate towards this infuriating asshole of a man.

“Because an hour before you jumped in front of that blast, I had kissed you for the first time,” Emhyr whispered. “After four years of finally growing closer, _and_ after two decades of my own hopes of getting to know you.”

Geralt stepped back, and Emhyr’s hand fell away. His eyes widened with pain for a second, and then it seemed like someone closed a door; everything gradually vanished until there was only the same man Geralt had met three weeks ago when he woke up with an empty house for a head.

Geralt stared at Emhyr, and he could see things as they were.

When the accident had happened, Ciri had lost her surrogate father. Geralt had been so focused on his gut feeling of protecting her that he had easily dismissed the confusing signals Emhyr evoked as something trivial.

Now he could tell there were much deeper roots to the feeling than mere confusion and a fleeting fancy; whoever he’d been before losing his memories, that person had harbored feelings towards Emhyr. There were so few things that had carried over the blast that this being one of them felt like something Geralt should trust.

Emhyr turned away, and Geralt saw the stiff set of his shoulders as an expression of distress; how could he have mistaken it for disinterest all these days? It was exactly the same way he had held himself when they had met for the first time after Geralt had woken up.

Emhyr let out an angry noise when Geralt stopped him and turned him around by force. It was transformed into a groan when Geralt backed him into the door he had been trying to escape through and kissed him again. They stayed there for a long while, hands gently tugging at clothing and reaching out to brush against skin where it could be uncovered. A deep, cooling relief was washing over Geralt’s thoughts; he couldn’t explain it, but he decided to accept it.

Finally, Emhyr pulled back. His hands stayed under Geralt’s shirt, moving in small, unconscious sweeps against the witcher’s back.

“I didn’t dare to hope any of this survived,” he said in a quiet voice. “For the past year, we had been circling each other in a way that suggested you had more than friendly feelings towards me.”

“Yeah?” Geralt asked. He let his fingers play with the black hair. “And what did you feel?”

Emhyr actually laughed at the question: a dry huff of amusement that managed to sound self-deprecating and... relieved? Geralt felt Emhyr’s body gradually relax against him.

“I lied to you, the night I kissed you,” Emhyr said levelly. “I passed it off as something trivial.”

Geralt lifted an eyebrow. “Did I buy that?”

Emhyr let out a breath. “I don’t think so, but we didn’t have the time to discuss it, then.”

Geralt closed the distance again, kissing Emhyr and enjoying the rush of understanding. His body didn’t know how to hold on to the man, so it seemed likely Emhyr was telling the truth about them not having been lovers in the past.

But Geralt did feel a strong pull, a physical imperative to drag Emhyr close, press kisses along his jaw, and relish in the small gasps the man made. He had cared for Emhyr before he had lost his memories; that need and want was still present.

“I thought we had more time to explore _this_ ,” Emhyr continued, the last word constricting into what would’ve passed as a whine on a normal man, when Geralt nipped at the skin below Emhyr’s ear. “And then you woke up without your memories.”

Geralt slipped a hand under the tunic, and Emhyr arched into it, just when his own fingers worked Geralt’s buttons loose and brushed the shirt fully open. Geralt drew in a breath when skin met skin.

“And you thought I couldn’t remember you,” Geralt finished for Emhyr, tugging him still closer by the hips.

“You couldn’t,” Emhyr groaned. “You still can’t, and part of me wants to walk away from you until we find a cure.” He made no move to back off. Geralt felt a warm hand grip his hip, possessive and sure.

“Don’t,” Geralt panted. “It’s not like you’re forcing me to do anything I don’t want to.”

Emhyr laughed, something making his breath hitch. “I have never entertained the notion I could force you to do anything.”

Geralt laughed at that and resumed kissing his way down Emhyr’s neck. Emhyr’s hands gripped his hair, and when Geralt sucked on his collarbone they tightened. The sting felt good, and Geralt smiled against the flushing skin. He enjoyed discovering small things that made Emhyr’s breath catch and caused his hips to twitch. He supposed it was a human thing, but with the vast blankness inside his head every reaction was new and fascinating.

As they made their way to the bed, shedding clothing as they went, a small part of Geralt’s brain pointed out that he had no experience to call his own. He supposed he’d had sex with men in the past; while Emhyr himself felt unfamiliar against his chest and under his hands, the mechanics of how a man liked to be touched came to him unprompted.

Geralt backed Emhyr against the bed post and slipped his undershirt over his head. The emperor was gripping his hips hard. Geralt could taste his arousal on his tongue, and when he leaned in and licked Emhyr’s neck, his sensory memory flared up; he had smelled the scent before, but this new sensation easily replaced the old.

Geralt threw away his own shirt, ignoring the jolt of pain that flashed up his forearms at the movement, and then ground against Emhyr. The brush of erection, even when felt through two layers of thick fabric, was glorious. Geralt groaned, and Emhyr actually whacked his head against the bed pole before cursing softly.

Geralt reached to cup Emhyr’s head and kissed him.

“Alright?” he whispered, laughing.

Emhyr rolled his eyes. A flush was creeping up his neck, and it made him look more human than any hesitation he had shown in the past days. Geralt pulled away and fell on the bed, shamelessly splayed and acutely aware of a new need that felt foreign and welcome. It had no shape, simply a hovering presence at the edge of his mind.

“Come here,” he grinned at Emhyr, trying to ignore the confusing sensation. He didn’t want to get caught up on it, not when Emhyr’s irises were almost swallowed by the black of his pupils and he was looking at Geralt with a mixture of heat and something that lacked a name, his hand reaching to tug his belt off.

Geralt undid his own belt, but then stalled when Emhyr shook his head.

“Let me,” he said, his eyes boring into Geralt’s with frightening intensity. Geralt leaned himself back on his elbows and watched Emhyr kick off his dusty trousers and stalk closer. Geralt’s mind cataloged the pale skin, a few scars, and strong thighs before Emhyr leaned over him.

“I’ve wanted to-” Emhyr begun, and then hesitated. Geralt looked up at Emhyr, hovering over him, and saw the indecision darkening his features again. He craned his head up to kiss Emhyr, and some of the tension bled out. Emhyr’s hand undid Geralt’s trousers slowly and then tugged them off. Geralt whined at the contact when they finally came together. He wrapped his arms around Emhyr and dragged them both down on to the covers.

Emhyr’s face momentarily contorted with what looked like sadness, before he leaned down for a bruising kiss. Geralt tried to keep up, letting his hands sweep down Emhyr’s back and revelling in the smoothness of his skin. His own was covered in scars and blemishes, on top of being unearthly pale; Emhyr was gorgeous in an extremely human way, with muted strength and radiating heat.

Emhyr lowered himself fully on top of Geralt and the moment their cocks brushed together Geralt felt his mind go blank. The friction and warmth was one thing, but the need he couldn’t find a name for was clawing at him with a frightening intensity. A whimper escaped his lips as he ground up, and Emhyr’s gasped in response. Geralt felt a strong hand brush his erection, and he had to fight to keep his eyes open.

It felt so good. Objectively speaking, he had known Emhyr for less than three weeks, but his body was burning up with something that felt much, much older. Having Emhyr thrusting into his hip and biting his lips satisfied some ancient need in him. Emhyr kept casting looks at him, as if to ascertain for himself who he was about to get intimate with. It sent a stab of irritation through Geralt; coming and going, lacking substance.

When Emhyr finally crawled down and kissed his hip, Geralt let out a broken sigh and accepted it all, deciding to trust what his body was telling him; he had wanted Emhyr for a long time, and he’d take everything the man would offer. His hips canted up wantonly in answer to Emhyr as he mouthed the base of his cock.

“Emhyr,” he gasped. “Please.”

Emhyr froze for just a second, his eyes narrowing. He looked at Geralt, and then a small smile broke free. It looked relieved and decisive, and that was as far as Geralt got before Emhyr’s tongue flicked against his cock. The touch sent sparks flying up his spine, and Geralt let his fingers thread into Emhyr’s hair. He tried to be mindful of how hard he was gripping, because by now he knew his physical strength was many-fold compared to ordinary humans. Not that Emhyr was ordinary in any way.

Geralt was swept up in the feeling of Emhyr slowly sucking him and massaging his thigh, but at the same time the weird urge kept getting stronger. Geralt tried to hang on to his sensible self, but Emhyr smelled too good; heady and content, like cloves mixed with sun-warmed earth and burned oak. The scent assaulted him, and sensing Emhyr’s arousal was making Geralt’s brain lose the last bit of resistance.

Geralt let out a sob of pleasure. Emhyr looked up; his eyes were soft but determined, and with his lips wrapped around Geralt’s cock he looked so human and vulnerable it made Geralt’s heart clench.

“I want you inside me.”

Geralt realized he had spoken the words aloud only when Emhyr pulled off. His eyes were wide and full of that same hurt that had plagued his face in all earlier occasions of proximity. Before Emhyr could withdraw, Geralt’s hands surged up and wrapped around Emhyr, trapping him. The man squirmed in his grip, looking suddenly apprehensive.

Geralt swallowed. He had no idea what he was doing, but this was something fragile and important, too precious to fuck up. He held on to Emhyr until he stopped struggling and relaxed against him, resigned and melancholy.

Finally Emhyr let his head drop, resting it against Geralt’s collarbone. The heat abated, but didn’t disappear completely. His fingers played with Geralt's white hair, brushing out tangles in silence.

“Maybe I should leave,” Emhyr finally said, quiet and reluctant.

“No,” Geralt shot back. The thought of Emhyr leaving made him feel cold and hollow. “How about you explain to me what you feel?”

Emhyr lifted his head, and the expression in his eyes was a stubborn sort of refusal.

Geralt snorted. “Yeah, thought not.” He considered the stern features for a moment, and again his body seemed to relax from under him at that.

“You felt like a threat, at first. Then I couldn’t understand you at all until just now when I kissed you,” Geralt finally said, still holding on to Emhyr to keep him from bolting. He was going to get to the bottom of this, because the confusion was killing him. “And I just want you so damn much, and you keep holding back.”

Emhyr’s face suddenly crumbled. He let his head fall back against Geralt’s chest, and the tension disappeared from his muscles. He breathed in, deep and slow.

“To be honest, I am trying to protect myself,” Emhyr finally said. It was uttered in the same tone as when he had talked about their first kiss; utterly flat, like omitting the emotions would make it somehow easier to digest. “If this… fancy is brought on by your amnesia, I’d much rather be spared the heartache of dealing with it once you regain your memories.”

Geralt blinked as he tried to comprehend the words. Once again Emhyr spoke in such a convoluted way that Geralt needed to take a step back to fully understand. When he did, his breath caught. Emhyr still thought Geralt didn’t have any access to anything that had happened before the accident.

Whatever there had been between them, whatever Geralt had felt, the bit that had survived the purge of memories was the want. It reached deep and encompassed a confusing scale of feelings from anger to adoration. At the core was a trust they hadn’t had the time to forge, but which had started to take root in the previous days.

Geralt rolled them over, bringing Emhyr to face him and still not letting him go. He even flung his leg over the man’s hip for good measure. The answering glare lacked any heat, because he could see Emhyr’s pupils widen.

“You saw me fight,” Geralt said without any preamble. He watched Emhyr closely, and finally the man softened. He sighed before nodding.

“It looked familiar.”

“It was familiar. My body remembers stuff my brain doesn’t. And it’s not only things that have to do with fighting,” Geralt explained.

Emhyr frowned. His hand was back on Geralt’s hip, stroking absently.

“You asked me why you felt like you needed to be close to me,” he finally said.

Geralt nodded. He brought their foreheads together, trying to find the words that would lift the heavy sadness from Emhyr’s face. “You pull me in. I have no idea what I thought about you before the accident, but I want you so badly it’s overwhelming.” Geralt searched for Emhyr’s eyes. “And it’s not only physical, because I feel good when you’re with me, when you’re close to me.”

It was true. When he and Emhyr were touching, Geralt could tell some part of his being felt satisfied and happier.

Emhyr closed his eyes for a second and swallowed. When he finally met Geralt’s gaze, he looked calmer. There was a moment of stillness, and then Emhyr rolled them over again, hovering over Geralt. He leaned in for a deep kiss, cradling Geralt’s head in his hands. Geralt kissed back, allowing Emhyr to set the pace.

“Do you still want me to have you?”

Geralt answered by grinding against Emhyr, and got a groan as a reward. The heat and want were returning, and with them the need he had felt earlier. It still confused him, but now it didn’t feel so foreign; it was more like curiosity edging him on, threaded with notes of humor and lust.

Emhyr extracted himself from the bed and went to a dresser. He returned with a vial of oil. Geralt quirked an eyebrow, and Emhyr scoffed.

“It’s a perfectly normal thing to have on hand in any decent bedroom. No need to be juvenile.”

Emhyr laid back on the bed, body flush with Geralt’s, and uncorked the oil. He poured some over his fingers and then rubbed them together while watching Geralt closely.

“Are you certain?” he asked again, frowning slightly. Geralt answered by taking hold of Emhyr’s wrist and dragging his hand to his crotch, pressing against it and simultaneously leaning to kiss him. Emhyr’s fingers easily found his entrance as he kissed back, once more nipping at Geralt's bottom lip.

Geralt let his head fall back as Emhyr pushed his fingers inside of him. It felt good in a way he knew he had experienced before; he had definitely had sex like this in the past.

But not with Emhyr. The scent of his arousal was strong, and Geralt let the knowledge that Emhyr wanted him that badly wash over him as he tried to relax. Emhyr’s gaze flickered between his fingers and Geralt’s face, and it seemed like he was trying to commit it all to memory. A slight smile kept playing on his lips, and Geralt leaned in to kiss it away.

Emhyr took his time fucking Geralt with his fingers, slowly sliding them in and out, drawing whimpers and sighs from Geralt. It was heavenly; the stretch made Geralt ache for more, and the slow pace built up the hunger. Emhyr’s eyes crinkled slightly as he scissored his fingers, and as he brushed against something extremely sensitive inside Geralt, the witcher’s back arched off the bed.

“Fuck, you feel good,” Geralt gasped, pulling Emhyr down for kiss and suddenly aware of how the faint scent of stress had all but disappeared from Emhyr’s skin. It had been there ever since their first meeting, and now it was gone; Geralt took it as a sign he was doing something right, despite the unusual circumstances they had found themselves in. Geralt tucked his nose into Emhyr’s neck and inhaled deeply.

Emhyr leaned back and lifted an eyebrow. Geralt chuckled, but right then Emhyr brushed against the nerve bundle again and Geralt almost cried out.

“C’mon,” he rasped, “I’m ready.”

Emhyr withdrew his hand and laid back, tugging Geralt’s hip. Heat crashed through the witcher when he understood how Emhyr wanted to have him.

Geralt straddled him in one smooth motion and scooped up the vial. He poured oil on Emhyr’s cock, stroking him slowly and watching his face flush. Emhyr tucked his elbows under himself, and he was actually biting his lip in an effort to stop himself from letting sounds spill free.

Geralt lifted himself up and then lowered himself on Emhyr’s cock, going slow and steady until Emhyr was fully inside of him.

Oh shit, this was good.

Emhyr was taking measured breaths as he collapsed back on to the covers and his hands grasped Geralt’s hips hard.

“Move for me,” he said, voice cracking slightly.

Geralt saw his eyes narrow slightly, but then he started riding Emhyr at an easy, languid pace, and his expression shifted into something more open. Geralt held his gaze, and some part inside his brain whispered how extraordinary this was; that Emhyr would look at him like that, with wide eyes and dry lips, as if Geralt was the sole thing that existed at this moment.

The thought sent a rush of affection through Geralt, an almost violent wave that had nothing to do with lust. Geralt accepted it, and bent down low enough to brush his lips against Emhyr’s. He bottomed out at the same moment, and Emhyr’s breath left him in a hot exhale right before he pulled Geralt into a kiss, licking into his mouth possessively.

Emhyr’s hand wrapped around Geralt’s cock and started stroking, and Geralt realized only then how close he was; he had been so caught up on watching Emhyr he had managed to ignore the hot and heavy weight of his cock bobbing in front of him. Now the need crashed through him and he moaned, his thighs trembling at the strain of moving up and down. Emhyr’s lips twitched, and he quickened up the pace, slamming into Geralt’s ass harder.

Geralt hung on the edge for several seconds, biting his lip in an effort to make this last longer. His mind was alight with wonder and heat, Emhyr’s sharp eyes softening at the edges, and the image branded itself into Geralt’s brain. He had no idea how he was feeling this strongly about a man he had known for three weeks, but his gut was tight with want; he needed to see Emhyr lose himself - nothing else mattered.

Emhyr rubbed his thumb over the leaking head of Geralt’s cock, and that sent him rushing into a cloud of heat as he started coming, no longer caring how loud he was. He clenched around Emhyr, grinding down the best he could through the haze. He was rewarded with Emhyr’s head falling back as he came inside, hips stuttering and losing their rhythm, hands gripping Geralt by the hips.

Geralt slumped a bit as he pushed his hair away from his face. He swallowed against his dry throat, and attempted to dislodge himself and lie down; Emhyr’s hand tightened on his hips, preventing him from moving, and Geralt looked up in question.

Emhyr met his eyes with an expression that told Geralt he had acted on an impulse right then, and was now well on his way to regretting that. Geralt let his instinct guide him as he lied down on top of Emhyr, holding him close and burying his face into the man’s neck. It was a bit awkward, but what’s more, it felt extremely intimate.

Emhyr stiffened. Geralt felt him swallow, and his lips moved against Geralt’s ear as he searched for words.

“Shut up, Emhyr,” Geralt said in a low voice. “I’m not going anywhere.” He pressed a kiss to the sweaty skin, and it drew a shudder from the emperor.

Gradually Emhyr slackened under him, and after a long while his arms returned, circling Geralt by his waist and returning the embrace. It was so hesitant it sent a stab of hurt through Geralt, and he couldn’t understand it.

“Why are you doing this?” Emhyr whispered.

Geralt pulled back enough to look Emhyr in the eye. “Because I feel like I may have been in love with you before the accident,” he said, tired of playing games.

What else could it be? Geralt’s heart felt light and happy now, when Emhyr was holding him close and their sweat was cooling. He wanted to stay here, maybe fall asleep together, and then have another round of good sex in the morning. He wanted to make sure Emhyr lost some of that frigid severity, even if only when they were alone; he wanted to see how Emhyr smiled and hear how he laughed, because he didn’t _know_ , and for some reason it felt like the most important thing in the world. Geralt’s chest felt tight at the admission, because he was slowly grasping he was afraid of being pushed away.

Trusting his gut on this was enough for him, but he couldn’t know if it would be enough for Emhyr.

Emhyr looked at Geralt for a long while, brows furrowed and clearly forgetting to blink. Then he suddenly let his head fall back down and smiled slightly. Geralt looked at him in question, but Emhyr shook his head.

“I feel like I understand you even less now that you lack a significant part of your self,” he mused. His grip tightened minutely. “But it is definitely working in your favor.”


End file.
